


Die Interimsliebenden

by FalleNess, Gwyllt



Series: Homosexual tendencies [Resscott] [2]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossdressing, Donnie still not getting it, Explicit Language, FBI, Fetish, Impersonation, Kinks, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Out of Character, Suffering Donald Ressler, clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24851380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalleNess/pseuds/FalleNess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: Donald Ressler wants to arrest Henry Prescott but nobody has warned him he has to be careful with his wishes.
Relationships: Donald Ressler/Henry Prescott | Mitchell Hatley, Henry Prescott | Mitchell Hatley/Donald Ressler
Series: Homosexual tendencies [Resscott] [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796308
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Die Interimsliebenden

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I and FalleNess were chatting about some crazy things and one of us—I can't say who it was, the concept popped out just like that—suggested a plot with Ressler chasing Prescott and suddenly finding himself in an underground club where a woman, with strangely manly features, danced on a stage. And things went on...
> 
> I have a cross-dressing kink and I could not resist the idea. There is something strangely appealing in Ressler who doesn't get it, and Prescott, tired from dropping all kinds of hints, is trying to seduce a stiff FBI Agent as a woman—if he can't do this as a man.
> 
> I don't know if I have to say this, but I had no intention to offend anyone or hurt someone's feelings! I truly believe that gender is a social construct, and people can be dressed and act however they want to, and none of this makes them neither 'worse' nor 'better'. I just think that Ressler is somehow stuck in his beliefs, and he'd never seen Henry as a 'partner' because he was sure there was only one 'proper' way to have relationships. And Henry wants to show Ressler he's wrong—sometimes it's just clothes.
> 
> And also I personally think that men in women's clothes are very attractive.
> 
> I am not a native speaker, and want to thank my proofreader FalleNess who corrected the mistakes in my translation. I assume it wasn't easy.

A GPS signal red dot was flickering on the screen, moving north on the map. Ressler was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel: the traffic jam was driving him nuts, however, neither the FBI's badge nor a call to the Attorney General couldn’t make the overturned dumpster truck disappear off the highway. Cops let the cars make their way into the opposite lane, no more than five per once. The queue was moving, but so slowly that Ressler could hardly resist the idea to drop his car off right there and run forward on foot.

_Patience’s a virtue. Patience’s a virtue. Patience…_

Ressler was suddenly stunned by a loud honking. He swore aloud and jerked the window open, almost falling out from the car.

“Are you fucking blind?! You don’t see the accident over there?!” Ressler roared, his words followed with a worldwide known gesture of two hands and three fingers. “Everyone’s in a rush! Sit your ass down and shut up!”

The driver of the neighboring car answered something, but Ressler didn’t listen. He sat back in his own seat and looked on the navigator’s screen: a red dot had almost left the town. _Alright, al’right… No tragedy._ Even better: let Prescott think no one was following him, let him lose his vigilance. And then Ressler would come and catch him red-handed, digging up a fucking lot of evidence for his ongoing investigations.

He couldn’t possibly think that blackmailing an FBI agent comes with no consequences?

Ressler had no doubts Prescott was coming to his stash; call it a ‘gut feeling’, a ‘third eye’, ‘providence’, or whatever you want. GPS-dot froze on the town border, surrounded by the gray squares of industrial buildings: warehouses and abandoned offices, abandoned offices and warehouses. Plenty of them was spread all over DC: in some cases, people ran out of money, in others—construction was halted on, an owner went bankrupt and the investigation started, and until it's finished, the building would be still standing. The police gave up a long time ago, it wasn’t possible to check every single building even in the city, and how many of these bandoes were out there anyway? Hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands…

Ahead of him, a car blinked its taillights, and Ressler changed the gear, speeding up, driving next to it. To his left, like a beached whale, a fleet of dumpster trucks passed, pouring Ressler with a sweet rotten smell—he hurried to close the window and turned on an AC. An instant later, his car broke free on the opposite side of the highway.

_Blow me, bitches._

As Ressler pushed the gas pedal to the floor, the car started off fast, dashing across the sizzling asphalt, the dashboard indicators showing the unusual 85 **°** F for May. The AC had been running on full blast, but stains of wet sweat were spreading under Ressler’s armpits anyway. The only thought comforting him was this: it was gonna be a whole lot worse for Prescott at a paddy wagon—not a damn AC at all in there. Driving, Ressler glanced at the navigator’s screen from time to time, but the red dot didn’t move, and the distance to it unavoidably decreased. Ressler was biting his lips in order not to smile though he wanted to laugh out loud.

_Don’t see it coming, do you, you son of a bitch? Sure I’m working a case in Baltimore? ‘Take care of Mr. Patchett’, hell yeah, of course, ten-thousand-friggin’-times, Prescott, ten thousand-fucking-times. Get your ass ready, it’s gonna be on fire in DC Jail._

Neat buildings changed to messy ones, then _—_ to hellholes; a couple of times a wide green strip of trees flashed before Ressler, _—_ supposed to be parks or something _—_ and an instant after he suddenly was surrounded by corrugated fences _—_ an industrial zone. Ressler was so excited he couldn’t make himself sit straight _—_ he danced, tapping the shoe’s toe on the gas pedal, fidgeted on the seat, fixed the mirrors _—_ glanced at the navigator's screen over and over, scared to discover an empty map at any moment.

But the GPS-signal wasn’t moving an inch.

Soon Ressler had to slow down: the road, diverging from the highway, looped among the fences, taking him further and further away into the fucking ass-end. A few times, Ressler thought he had reached a roadblock, but then he found a narrow, at the size of the car, the passage in which he managed to squeeze in.

Finally, a yellow triangle on the screen bumped into a red dot, and Ressler stopped his car and blinked sheepishly at an empty road.

_It can’t be._

Blood began pounding in his ears, his face hot, ears throbbing: _no. No, no, no, no, no!_

“No!” Ressler barked and leaped out of his car. He ran back and forth as if Prescott’s car could have been parked peacefully somewhere around the corner, and he hadn't noticed it.

“Son of a BITCH! Asshole, motherfucking cunt! How did you do that?! How?!”

“Sir?”

Ressler, blinded by rage, didn’t register another voice at first. He didn’t know how Prescott could have found the bug but he _—_ _obviously_ _—_ had and gotten rid of it. And by now he could be anywhere.

_Son of a b—_

The unfamiliar voice breaking his train of thoughts broke in the middle, Ressler turned back to the cause of the commotion. A man, middle-aged, with a lost look in his eyes, looked out from the guard box _—_ no gun, no “ _it-seems-you-are-in-the-wrong-side-of-town-buddy_ ” attitude which Ressler was used to getting here and there from every scum.

Apparently, he himself looked like a freak.

“Oh. I am so sorry, good evening,” Ressler forced himself to smile as sweet as he could and took a step, stretching his hand out for a handshake. “I didn’t think anybody’s here. It’s been a hell of a day and this heat…”

The man shifted his cautious gaze onto Ressler’s palm, as if weighing up pros and cons, and then he made a decision and shook his hand.

“I feel you, sir. Not happy about the weather too, I almost had a heart attack myself.”

Ressler was sorting through his thoughts, scrambling the words for a question— _did you see a black Mercedes here, don’t you mind telling me where it went_ —but the man beat him to it, asking a question which had changed everything at once.

“First time?”

_First time?_

“Yes,” Ressler blurted out, not letting the pause linger in the air—he could figure out what the ‘first time’ meant later. “So obvious? You have a sharp eye.”

Suspicion left the man’s eyes, and he nodded knowingly.

“I was nervous my first time too, but I assure you, no need to be afraid. There are decent people, and we never had any problem. Safety first, that’s why we've settled here.”

Ressler nodded, trying to make his expression as vague as possible. His anger dissipated slowly, freeing up space for hope—if there were some ‘d _ecent people_ ’, then, maybe, Prescott wouldn't have gotten rid of the GPS-tracker. _Perhaps—_

“An underground parking lot is that way. Down to the road, then turn right,” the man stretched his hand out, pointing the way. “Newbies always get confused. You will see the entrance, won’t mix it with anything else.”

An underground parking garage. Ressler felt an unspeakable relief: just this, a fucking underground garage. The son of a bitch wouldn’t go anywhere _—_ Ressler had caught the one and only Raymond Reddington; sure he could catch a fucking miserable cleaner.

“Thank you so much, sir,” Ressler squeezed out a smile. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“Have fun for me,” the man grinned, seeming to be totally out of suspicion.

Ressler got back in the car and clutched his fingers at the steering wheel. The red dot was flickering on the screen, _—He’s-here-he’s-here—_ getting on his nerves, and Ressler turned the damn thing off. He was already in the right place, and he could find Prescott’s car without any tips.

Ressler started the car, turned left, rode down slowly across a steep slope, and then turned right, finding himself coated in darkness. A moment later, his eyes got used to the blackness, and he could see the cars crowded around him, twisting his head sideways, trying to see every one of them, until his eyes finally found familiar plates.

_Gotcha._

Gripped by the thrill of a chase, Ressler had let the main part of his plan slip off his mind _—_ catching Prescott red-handed. Drunk with success, he didn’t realize he could neither arrest Prescott nor lock him up in DC Jail without any solid grounds. No, Ressler only knew one thing: he almost got Prescott, came so close to him that a taste of sure victory kept him from thinking everything over.

Ressler parked his car in the next parking spot, got out of the vehicle, and set the alarm. His ears caught a rhythmical sound _—throb-throb-throb—_ though a red neon sign _ENTRY_ , shining above an iron door, was a much more obvious beacon.

_Yeah, this is the place, no mistake. High-level security._

Ressler approached the _ENTRY_ sign and then stopped, pierced by a sudden thought: should he go inside with a gun in his holster? Metal detectors might be at the entrance, and most of the time civilians got it wrong with the firearms; of course, Ressler was with the FBI so no one would bust his ass, but the mess would follow, and Prescott would flee.

 _For fuck’s sake,_ Ressler thought, _I can handle this without guns._

Decision made, he took the gun belt off, tossed it onto the driver’s seat, and then locked the car again, putting the keys into his pocket.

Behind the door, the music grew louder, but Ressler still didn’t recognize it _—_ but then, he wouldn’t call himself a music expert even in his better days. He took a few steps forward through a dark hall: no photos, no decoration, even no guards. _Damn good security, yeah, come in if you want, do whatever you want…_

His train of thoughts was broken by a black musclehead in a suit blocked his path.

“You’re not a member, sir,” the musclehead said with a low-pitched voice, so deep Ressler barely heard him over the jarring music. “Sorry, but I can’t let you in.”

_Fuck._

“I’m... _er..._ ” Ressler stammered, trying to find the right words to sound innocent as if he did nothing wrong. “I’m a first-timer. The man up there explained to me how to find this place, and I—”

“I am sorry, sir, but I’ve never seen you here before,” the guard changed his stance a little. Ressler could have sworn that a .45 is under his jacket’s flap, or something even more badass. “Maybe you know someone inside, so he or she could vouch for you?”

An unpleasant turn of events, but one never knew what could work in that kind of situation. _If Prescott was here somewhere, in that case, so..._

“Actually, yes, my friend recommended this place to me,” Ressler raised his hand, his thumb pointing vaguely over his shoulder, either on the wall or into space. “He’s already here, I’ve seen his car in the parking lot.”

“What’s his name?”

For a fraction of a second, panic tightened his throat _—Name, name, what’s his fucking name?!—_ but then it popped out from his memory.

“Henry,” Ressler said, trying to calm his heartbeat. “Henry Prescott. Like this high, dark hair...” He lifted his hand slightly above his head, looking for a trace of recognition on the musclehead’s face.

“Oh, you are a friend of Mr. Prescott,” the musclehead droned and suddenly stretched his big lips in a smile. “Please, come in.”

_So, just like that. Well, fine._

Passing the security guard, Ressler cautiously turned his back to him, but the guard didn’t stop him; he didn't call him out, or even grabbed him by the collar of his coat. A moment later, Ressler walked through another door, entering the underground club or whatever it was.

The music grew louder but not a lick comprehensible, and Ressler found himself among people _—_ dancing, sipping cocktails at the bar, and what-not. Men and women, some, painted like freaks, others—looking boringly normal, wore dresses, skirts, jeans, and even nothing. Ressler got lost in the colorful diversity, among the hot bodies. For a moment, it slipped his mind what he had really come here for.

Nobody paid any attention to him: no big deal, just another regular. Ressler merged into the crowd, trying not to push others—he didn’t want any trouble. The mix of perfume and sweat hit his nose—inside, the heat cut off all the oxygen, making it hard to breathe, despite the ceiling-mounted AC boxes.

A girl with dip-dyed hair passed him by, and Ressler put out his hand, trying to avoid a _close encounter_ —and the heat of the hot woman’s body burnt his fingertips. His thoughts strayed, disheveled, but he sobered himself up,— _Don’t think about it_ —glancing around. He was ready to grab the bastard by bare his hands and drag him away; unfortunately, he was surrounded only by strangers.

“Wow, are you new?” An elegant hand, a bracelet wrapped on its owner’s wrist, stopped him, touching Ressler on his shoulder. “I guess I’ve never seen you here before.”

He turned around. A tall, rough-faced but strangely attractive woman was one step away from him. He felt a sudden pang of regret—too bad she wasn’t his type.

“Yeah, I’m looking for my friend,” Ressler repeated an excuse that worked once, preferring not to reinvent the wheel. “His name’s Henry, maybe you—”

The woman clapped her hands and then laughed, her head leaning back a little, as she showed him her long neck, encircled by a beaded necklace.

“Oh, Henry! He’d invited you here but didn’t tell you, did he? Yeah, it’s totally his thing.”

_Didn't tell me what? And what the fuck is ‘his thing’?_

Ressler didn’t get a chance to ask her—the woman leaned onto him, put her hand on his shoulder, and pointed towards the stage.

“Go right there, and you’ll see it. But first, won’t you have a drink? There is a great beer in the bar, you should try it.”

The music died down, and silence lingered—the silence of the hive filled with bees, except for the buzzing—the humming of distant chatting. The music started again, but Ressler still couldn’t name a song.

“See ya!” the woman, brushing her lips against his cheek, slipped briskly into the crowd, dissolving among the dancing people.

Ressler didn’t buy a beer. He wasn’t born yesterday and knew pretty well the bar’s owners had pushed the price up—bartenders often watered down beer so much it turned into piss. He was much more interested in Prescott.

The crowd was dancing, bodies swaying to the rhythm, and Ressler easily made his way to the stage where some woman shimmied her body. He scanned the crowd—thank God, there, around the stage, the light was bright enough, and he could see the faces, yet none of them resembled Prescott.

What if that woman played him and went to warn— _Nah, bullshit,_ —Ressler argued with himself, shrugging the persistent suspicion aside. If she wanted to sold him out to Prescott, she would have asked something like ‘who’s looking for him’ or ‘what’s your name’ or other shit. Probably, Prescott had just nipped out somewhere—maybe to the bar for a “great beer”, maybe—into the crapper. Ressler swore aloud—no one couldn’t hear him through the music anyway—and stopped, deciding not to flip out over nothing. Prescott wouldn’t go anywhere, and Ressler was more likely to find him just staying here rather than jumping all over the club like a fucking goat.

Ressler shifted his gaze onto the woman who performed on the stage, transfixed: her hands slithered down, smoothing her hair, dark strands sifting between her fingers. Her pinky fingers traced her prominent cheekbones, slightly pulled down her lower lip, then—slid down across her chin, her neck, but didn't linger there, descending on the spread of surprisingly wide collarbones. Teasingly, the woman crawled her hands up to her shoulders and back, softly outlining the pit of her neck with her forefingers. As they went down again, her nails scratched a thin fabric of her dress falling into small teasing folds.

It came to Ressler that he stood with his mouth open.

He tousled his hair nervously and looked at the crowd again— _Maybe, Prescott’s here?_ —but faces blurred, merging into a many-eyed and many-mouthed beast. Another image drifted before Ressler’s eyes: the long fingers sliding on the white skin, pulling down the lower lip, the black strands floating in the dark, coiling around him like seaweed…

He bought himself a beer after all.

The music changed, so changed the people on the stage—but that woman didn’t come back. Ressler was guzzling his beer, sitting on the barstool, not noticing he was humming a song he knew neither its name nor a singer, only the rhythm and tune.

“Oh, I see you took my advice!”

Ressler flinched and almost flipped his glass, recognizing the woman he had talked earlier with.

“One for me, too,” she gestured “one” to be sure the bartender understood her and sat next to Ressler, giving him a foxy look. “You found Henry?”

“I’m, _err…_ No. We must have missed each other,” Ressler completely forgot about Prescott—he stayed somewhere far, in a parallel dimension, and Ressler didn’t want to come back.

The woman leaned her head back and let out a low guttural laugh—it was, obviously, rehearsed, but, at the same time, strangely natural gesture, and Ressler found it slightly repelling.

“Missed each other! Ha-ha! You didn’t get it, right?”

“Didn’t get what?” As his anger was bubbling up, Ressler tried to figure out the ways to get rid of this woman.

“Finish your beer, and I’ll take you to him,” she said in a bossy manner, lifting her glass. “Especially since he's waiting for you.”

“What?” Ressler froze, a cold shiver traveled his spine.

"What ‘what’? I told him his friend was looking for him—tall ginger and in a cheap suit—and Henry asked me to bring you to him.”

A half an hour ago, Ressler couldn't have wished for a more desirable thing—yet now he would give anything to cut Prescott out of this evening. He took the last pull of beer and squeezed his lips tightly, letting a liquid roll down on his tongue to his throat, and after that, he glanced at the woman.

“Listen—“ Ressler hesitated, and the woman prompted:

“Agatha.”

“Agatha,” Ressler repeated, swirling his glass around. “Don’t you know that woman? On stage? Long black hair, red dress?”

Agatha nodded, her finger slowly sliding on the edge of her glass.

“Yeah. I know her.” The woman’s black eyes glanced up at his face. “I can take you to her if you want to.”

Ressler bit his lip and stared gloomily into his beer. It _was_ good, at least not as bad as Ressler expected; in any other circumstances, he would have enjoyed it though with this dilemma hanging over his head, his delight evaporated.

_Prescott, or the showgirl?_

A drop slid down the sweaty glass, a round spot spread on the bar, and Ressler felt himself just like that—a smeared blurred stain. He so wanted to choose the second option, but the duty—to the FBI, and his own—his moral code, his wounded pride were yelling in unison: _Prescott! Prescott!_ He walked all over him, made Ressler his bitch, for fuck’s sake,—Ressler did his fucking bidding whenever he asked, hiding bodies whenever he told him to. And now what, just let the fucker go…?

_Grounds for detention._

An unexpected thought popped in his mind, and Ressler let out a deep sigh, not getting if he was glad or disappointed.

It was simple—he had no grounds to bust Prescott’s ass. Ressler still could detain him, shove him into a car and haul him off to the PD—where they would release him, and, of course, pour hundreds of apologies into him because no law in the US prohibited him visiting underground clubs. And Ressler would be a joke again, and, besides, he would mess up his chance at getting to know a pretty woman—because of his job _(again)_ , and those damn bastards ruining his life.

“Take me,” Ressler pushed his glass across the table and stood up.

“To whom?” Agatha smiled.

“To the showgirl.”

Agatha’s lips curled in a broad grin—there was something in it, some kind of subtext, but the beer had already kicked in, wrapping his body in warmth, and Ressler gave up on deciphering it.

Subtext? Subtext it is— it’s Friday, and Ressler didn’t care.

“Follow me,” Agatha said, sliding gracefully off the barstool.

Following her, Ressler had regretted his decision twice, changed his mind again, and then changed his mind yet again, the third time in a row. Prescott could go fuck himself. Fuck his jokes and mockery, fuck his job because today’s Friday, and fuck… Well, fuck it all. Ressler deserved his rest.

“Here you go,” Agatha stopped at the wooden door, the paint chipping off it, and made an inviting gesture. “She’s inside, but it’s better you knock. It’s quite rude to break into a dressing room without permission.”

“Of course,” Ressler forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“Have fun,” Agatha winked at him, blew a kiss, and then walked off, invitingly swaying her hips, but Ressler didn’t care.

He waited ‘till the clicking of her heels faded away, pulled himself together, and knocked at the door three times. He strained his ears to hear a response; he could discern nothing but music—the loud, unfamiliar music with its _throb-throb-throb_ , resonating in his ears.

_Pull your shit together, fucking asshead._

Ressler wiped the sweat off his forehead. The door opened, just for a couple of inches, and he took a step back. He froze and then peeped through the half-ajar door—what else was it, if not an invitation?

The room was dimly lit, with only a clip-on lamp over the dressing table casting the light. The showgirl sat in front of the mirror, meticulously fixing her makeup with smooth and precise strokes. Ressler realized, belatedly, that he hadn’t asked Agatha for the woman’s name.

“ _Ehem…_ Hi,” he croaked. His mind swarmed with dumb thoughts: he should have brought some flowers, he should have brought drinks, he-should-have-should-have—but Ressler forced them away. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw your dance and… Well, it was cool.” 

Ressler wasn’t lying: he knew plenty of girls who drew his attention by their naked boobs or asses, but he didn’t meet a woman who could do it with only one dance, not stripping at all, except baring her legs. 

The woman turned to him and smiled, cocking her head to the right. As sharp as her face had been in the limelight, as soft it looked now. Of course, it was all beer and dim lights, the tricks as old as time, but right here and right now, she was the most beautiful woman in the entire world.

“I was wondering if you’d agree to have a drink with me—” It came to him, he didn’t have a clue what her name was, so he added hastily, “I mean, may I know your name?”

He wished he had been fucking quiet. Ressler closed his eyes, trying to understand what the fuck was wrong with him—every time he wanted to get to know someone, his tongue would move from his mouth into his ass.

He wished he had chosen Prescott—at least he knew what to do with him and didn’t need to make a good impression.

Someone’s fingers brushed against his forearm, and Ressler opened his eyes—

a showgirl’s face was right in front of him. Gently, she ran her fingers up to his shoulder, touched his neck, and caressed his skin, slick with sweat. Her face was inches from Ressler’s, and he could see a thick layer of her makeup—she was older than he thought—and fuck that. He saw her long spiky eyelashes, a subtly familiar eye-shape, and painted dark-red lips, curved in a cunning smile. It occurred to Ressler that she still hadn’t told him her name. _Fuck this._ He sobered himself up, stopped thinking, and leaned in to kiss her.

She didn’t break up the kiss. Her chilly fingers threaded through his hair, tenderly sifting through the short strands—tingles rolled down Ressler’s spine, echoing in his groin. Leaning forward, he wrapped his arm around her waist—he was slightly surprised by its thickness—and pulled her closer to himself, taking in every curve of her body. She kept kissing him, either drawing him closer to him or leaning forward, her teeth lightly nipping his lips—and then her hand landed on his belt. She stroked the bulge of his zipper as if asking: _you mind, honey?_

Ressler didn’t mind.

With silent permission gotten, the woman pushed him hard, as if she owned him, forcing to step back—and Ressler bumped into a nightstand, awkwardly sagging against it. Her nimble hands unhooked the tip of the belt from the loop, pulling the prong out. His heart beating faster, Ressler heard the clinking of the buckle, and then the woman’s fingers pushed a button into the hole and pulled down a zipper, tugging his pants down.

With her black hair rippled down her back, she knelt down, her legs slightly apart. Her cold fingers touched his sack, worked the cock down-to-up and back, forcing Ressler to press his lips together and breathe out through his nose.

She repeated the motion, wrapping her fingers around his hard-on, brought her lips to his cock, and took him into her mouth. Ressler closed his eyes, clutching the edge of the drawer—he didn't want to jerk at her hair like an asshole.

With her narrow throat tightened around him, her wet tongue gently massaged his frenum—and every motion sent waves through Ressler’s body. The tension was building up in his groin, stretching like a string; not aware of it, Ressler was thrusting into her throat harder and harder. She didn’t put up much resistance, only keeping him from being way too rough—and at some point, Ressler grabbed her hair, grinding harder, ramming into her throat, ignorant of the muffled growl he made.

_Right now… Just...a..._

The coming hit him like a wave, knocking him off, sweeping away all the thoughts, sensations only left: soft lips on his cock, trembling knees, a tingle in his stomach—and something prickly and bristly in his hands. His breathing shallow, Ressler leaned his head back, the back of his head bumping against the wall. The showgirl was somewhere down at his feet.

He must have blacked out for a couple of seconds: when he opened his eyes, there was no one around. Ressler sniffed, swallowed—he had a lump in his throat, and he coughed to get rid of the unpleasant feeling.

“Hey, where are you?” Ressler wished he knew the showgirl’s name. “Look, I’m sorry, I usually don’t do… Well, nothing like that.”

“Don’t be sorry,”—he heard a voice behind the transparent dressing screen—“I liked it.”

Ressler coughed again, wiped his nose off his palm—and then realized he held something in his hand.

Something strange, long and—

He stared into his palm and froze like a PC at the FBI’s office. The black strands coiled his fingers in tight circles—the same way they had been when he was grinding the woman deep onto his cock.

The problem was—the hair got separated from its owner. 

Ressler could almost hear the relays clicking in his head; the realization submerged him like a tide, back and forth, conjuring up the picture from the pieces: a wig, excessive makeup, her not uttering a word, Agatha’s strange

( _subtext_ )

laugh, and strangely familiar foxy eyes. He caught the movement in the corner of his eye and raised his head—to see Henry-fucking-Prescott coming out from behind the screen.

Ressler’s whole body was fire-hot as if the temperature suddenly increased over twenty degrees. The long strands, like dead snakes, were hanging off his hand—he clutched the wig like a fucking idiot. Prescott was standing a couple of feet away from him, grinning, his hair tucked in and smoothed under a funny wig cap, a dark-red lipstick smudged across his lips as if Prescott were a cheap whore.

“Don’t look at me that way, Agent Ressler,” Prescott made scary eyes and then grinned again. Only now Ressler noticed a white tissue in Prescott’s hand—he was wiping the makeup off his face. “I’ll never believe you didn’t get who it was.” 

Ressler’s head was completely empty: he was trying to understand, get the facts right, remember… Yes, the showgirl _did_ look a bit strange, her eyes _did_ look familiar, Agatha _did_ smile with fucking subtext, but this couldn’t be, just couldn’t…

Now, post factum, everything became clear; the splinters came back together, and Ressler couldn’t understand how— _HOW_ could he have possibly mix _THIS_ with a real woman—but, but...

Wiping the lipstick off his chin, Prescott smiled; he squinted his eyes at Ressler, a playful expression gone from his face.

“Jesus,”—his voice quivered, and some kind of pity flashed across his eyes—“you _actually_ didn’t.”

Ressler was looking at him—he looked and looked, his head as empty as at the coroner’s morgue after a closed case. The wig slipped out from his fingers and dropped on the floor like a dead jellyfish, spreading its black strands-tentacles—and Ressler realized he stood in front of Prescott like a dumbass, with his pants pulled down.

It must have been on Ressler’s face, because Prescott crumpled a tissue up and threw it into a table trash can filled by lots of those, and turned to Ressler.

“I will help you to put on your pants on if you promise not to punch me in the face,” Prescott smiled, but his foxy eyes looked at Ressler with caution. “If you can’t speak, then, at least, nod.”

The idea of Prescott touching him again helped Ressler to put his shit together. He deeply breathed in a hot, perfumed, sweaty-smelled air, and croaked in stranger’s hoarse voice he didn’t recognize as his own anymore:

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare. Touch me, and you’re dead, you fucking perv.”

Prescott raised his eyebrows.

“Considering what happened here, I’m not the only one fucking perv in this room.”

Ressler opened his mouth but didn’t find the words. His limbs stiff, he leaned down. It took him two tries to grab his pants and pull them up; he tugged his zipper close, buttoned up and buckled his belt—and only then he felt himself a bit protected.

Protected enough not to feel a pathetic urge to cry.

“I will fucking kill you,” his voice was croaky yet unexpectedly calm. “I swear, you fucking piece of shit. One day I’ll come after you.” 

“You already came, Donnie. Get some rest.” Prescott winked at him, not a bit bothered, and pulled the fucking wig cap off his hair, so his own short black hair was sticking out like porcupine needles. Even in dim light, Ressler could see the leftover makeup: the dark circles were under his eyes as if Prescott lined up his eyelids with black eyeliner. “I hope you aren't skipping your side gig and came here after you took care of by Mr. Patchett?”

Ressler flinched when Prescott mentioned a ‘side gig’. The plan was going south: he didn’t arrest Prescott, didn’t ‘take care’ of the body as he should have, and besides…

_Oh, fuck!_

“So, that’s what you’re busy with when I’m cleaning your shit?” Ressler kicked the wig, and it slammed against the wall with a loud “ _thump_ ”. “You dress up like a chick and suck off dicks in the dressing room?”

“Oh dear, Donnie, are you jealous?”

Ressler hated Prescott’s voice and its tone, and the way Prescott grinned at him, right at his face, with those fucking lips, the traces of the dark whorish lipstick left in their corners.

In an instant, Prescott collapsed onto the dressing table, the fucking tubes and brushes swept away. Ressler shook his hand to throw away the pain—it was exploding in his arm up to his elbow.

“Don’t you fucking call me ‘Donnie’!”

“It gets you off?” Prescott smiled with his blood-stained lips, not even trying to wipe them off. “Your dick is that itchy? Wanna take it balls deep up someone’s ass?” 

Ressler grabbed him by the collar and shook him up like a kitten.

“You are pushing it, Prescott, but the funniest thing is that you don’t get the whole thing. It wasn’t me who wore a dress and sucked off a stranger’s dick—and even for free.”

“No, Donnie, it is _you_ who don’t get the whole thing. It wasn’t me who had a boner for a man… in a dress.”

Prescott’s face was inches from Ressler’s, and he didn’t attempt to move. Ressler bared his teeth—he was ready to sink his teeth into his throat, rip through the flesh, tendon, and artery so this fag would bleed here, and never, ever he would cause him any fucking trouble again...

The fucker's foxy eyes looked at him without fear.

“Bastard,” Ressler spat and tossed him on the pile of trash. Prescott flashed a smile at him and pulled out one of the tissues from the box near him, dabbing at his injured lip.

“Don’t forget to take care of Mr. Patchett, Agent Ressler,” Prescott said. “Or I will be _very_ disappointed. And you don’t want me to be disappointed… Right?”

Ressler swore loud and dirty and left from the dressing room, slamming the door shut behind him. The music still roared over his head— _throb-throb-throb_ —but Ressler didn’t want to go in there. He found an evacuation plan; it took him a few seconds to spot the way out to the back door, and he left the building through it, wishing to wipe this place from memory, wipe these fucking pervs, his own memories, and, most of all,

Henry- _fucking_ -Prescott.

**Author's Note:**

> "Die Interimsliebenden" is the name of a song, perfomed by Einstürzende Neubauten.


End file.
